


I've always been dark (with light somewhere in the distance)

by whispersinthedark



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Desperation, Loads of Angst, M/M, Pining, all of my faves ((((-:, but most importantly, newt's hopeless anguished and unconditional love for thomas, of the movies instead of the books, re-write (kinda) - Freeform, slooooooooooowwwwwwww burn, sorry if saying so is sacrilege but I did not enjoy the books at all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:23:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispersinthedark/pseuds/whispersinthedark
Summary: He sleeps fitfully and wakes often, gasping for air, able to remember only fragments of his nightmares. A hideous, mechanical monster chasing him down a narrow hallway made of stone. Arms outstretched, trying to grab hold of him but always just out of reach. Himself, drowning, water filling his mouth as he opens it to scream. And a name, always, in the back of his throat -Thomas.Basically the movies written into fic - Newt's point of view as he struggles with the fact that he's falling desperately in love with Thomas, along with, you know, all of the other shit that's going on.





	I've always been dark (with light somewhere in the distance)

**Author's Note:**

> hey ya'll. this is my first bit of writing I've ever posted. I slaved away over this garbage for way too long, so I figured I'd feel better about it if.....u know....someone besides me read it.  
> this sticks more to the timeline and events of the movies more than anything else (and it heavily borrows bits of dialogue directly from them, just so ya'll know) but I've taken out and added in bits and pieces of my own along the way. so.............................................................here ya go, guys.

  _Love - let's talk about love_  
_Is it anything and everything you hoped for?_  
_Or does the feeling haunt you?_  
_I know the feeling haunts you_

 

* * *

 

The fresh greenie looks scared, but strong. That’s Newt’s first impression of him, formed as the kid still sat in the Box, looking up at the lot of them, squinting in the harsh sunlight. And which of them hadn’t looked scared when they’d first come up? The other boys tittered, laughed, scoffed at the boy below them, as they generally did when a new greenie arrived. Newt never joined in. He always had a soft spot for them, the new greenies. Maybe it was easier for the others to forget what it was like to be the boy in the Box, but Newt remembered all too well.

Gally yanks the greenie up and out of the Box, tossing him to the ground a little too roughly, as usual. Newt rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, just peers down at the new arrival curiously. Waits for him to say something, maybe ask what’s going on.

Instead the greenie scrambles to his feet and takes off running.

Newt and the others watch him go, relatively unconcerned. _“We’ve got a runnerrrrr!”_ Zart screams, and the group erupts into cheers which dissolve into hysterical laughter when the greenie trips over his own feet and hurtles face-first into the grass and dirt. Newt laughs along, unable to help himself, but he stops as the greenie gets to his feet, a trembling mess. They all watch as he turns in a circle slowly, staring at the Glade, and the walls surrounding it, with wide eyes. It’s too hard to not feel bad for the kid. It’s difficult to  _not_  remember how Newt himself had felt when he’d laid eyes on those stone walls for the very first time.

A few of the others, still giggling, rush forward to grab the greenie before he can make a break for it again, and Newt turns away, shaking his head a little. The kid’ll be thrown in the pit, like all new greenies, until Alby has time for him. Time to give him the Tour. Make introductions. Explain the basics. Newt is constantly grateful that this responsibility doesn’t fall on his shoulders. He’s not sure he could handle the greenies with nearly as much grace and patience as Alby does, month after month. Some of them are difficult. Some refuse to talk, or eat, or work, for days. Some are violent. And a lot of them cry.

“You gonna help or what?”

A voice interrupts his thoughts. It’s Zart’s. He’s down in the Box with Winston, the both of them struggling to lift all of their supplies up and out of the metal cage. Everyone else has scattered, already over the fleeting excitement of the greenie’s arrival. Alby, presumably, is on his way to greet the kid.

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Sorry.”

And he lowers himself into the Box.

   
-

   
Newt is watching from halfway across the Glade as Chuck takes off running, as fast as his short, pudgy legs will allow, after the greenie, who’s heading directly for the open stone doors of the Maze. He obviously can’t hear what they’re saying, but as Chuck catches up to the greenie and starts waving his hands around, Newt can imagine the poor kid’s frantic pleas to turn around and go back.

A few moments later, Minho and Ben pass through the opening and into the Glade, right on time, as always. The two of them pass Chuck and the greenie without so much as a second glance, heading directly for the Map room. Newt lifts a hand in greeting as they jog by, and Minho responds with a cheerful wave before both of the boys disappear into the shadows of the forest.

When Newt directs his attention back to Chuck and the greenie only a couple of seconds later, he feels a jolt of alarm when he sees the greenie still slowly stepping forward, gradually getting closer and closer to the entrance of the Maze. What the fuck is the kid _doing?_ Chuck is behind him, his face pressed into his small hands, clearly having given up on trying to stop the greenie from doing whatever it is he’s trying to do. Suddenly nervous, Newt takes a few steps forward, and then begins to run, opening his mouth as he gets closer in order to yell some sort of warning - but Gally beats him to it.

In an instant Gally is up in the greenie’s face, and in another has shoved him violently to the ground. Newt slows immediately, a little taken aback by Gally’s ferocity, but also kinda glad for it - the doors are just about to close, and even if Gally had pushed a little harder than necessary, at least the greenie is still in the Glade and not staggering through the Maze, minutes from death. But the greenie, of course, has no idea that Gally’s just saved his stupid life, and so he freaks, kicking his legs out and yelling as he scrambles to his feet. “Calm, calm, calm,” Gally says quickly, raising his hands, but he’s drowned out by another rough shout from the greenie - _“Don’t touch me!”_

At least a dozen other boys have taken notice of the commotion and are running up behind Newt and forming a small crowd, several of them looking downright thrilled to be witnessing a little bit of seemingly harmless drama, which doesn’t come by often in the Glade. Alby’s suddenly beside him, and they exchange a tense glance. It’s clear from Alby’s expression that he’s wondering the same thing as Newt - _what’s up with this kid?_ Chuck is a few feet to Newt’s left, now, looking positively green with horror.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you guys?” the greenie is shouting now. He looks nearly hysterical, covered head to toe with dirt and sweat, his eyes wide with panic.

“Just calm down, all right?” Newt says slowly, taking a step forward, holding one of his arms out in front of him.  
  
“No, okay?” the greenie turns to him and spits. “Why won’t you tell me what’s out there?”

“We’re just trying to protect you, man!” Alby’s voice is harsh.

“It’s for your own good,” Newt adds.  
  
“You can’t just keep me here!” the greenie screams. It’s as though he can’t hear a word they’re saying - or just doesn’t care.

“We can’t let you leave,” Alby grits out. He looks like he’s about to lunge forward and grab the kid by the neck.

_“Why not?!”_

Then, abruptly, the greenie falls silent - they all do - as a forceful wind begins to blow from within the Maze, ripping its way into the Glade, lifting up dead leaves and dirt along the way and hurling it into all of their faces. It’s accompanied, as usual, by a low, mournful howl - a chilling noise that none of them has ever been able to discern as either animal, machine, or something else - and then a loud grinding as the gears start to turn and the doors slowly begin to close. A few moments later, with one final, muted _boom_ , they rasp to a halt.

None of them speak. The greenie seems to be paralyzed with shock. He barely reacts as Gally marches up to him and seizes him forcefully by the shoulder.

“Next time?” Gally snaps. “I’m gonna _let_ you leave.”

With that, he turns and stalks off. Most of the other boys follow. Alby takes a few steps forward, places a hand gently on the shoulder Gally had just grabbed, and with his lips turned up in a small smile, murmurs - “Welcome to the Glade.” He turns, then, walking away without another word, and Newt doesn’t know what to do besides trail after him.

He glances back only once, after him and Alby are already dozens of feet away, and sees that the greenie hasn’t moved. He’s still standing there, alone, staring at the closed stone doors in front of him, his hands clenched into fists. Newt feels a pang of some weird emotion he can’t identify, and for the briefest moment thinks about running back over there, to the greenie, to tell him that he knows what’s it like, he remembers. Tell the kid that he’ll get used to it. That he’ll be okay. He’s already subconsciously taken several steps back in the direction he’d just come from when Alby speaks and interrupts his train of thought.

“Newt! Start gathering some brush for the bonfire, could ya?”

“‘Course, Alby,” he replies automatically, and turns to give the boy a quick smile. Distracted.

When he turns back around a moment later, the greenie is gone.

  
-

   
Somehow Newt finds himself, hours later, sitting a ways off from the rest of the boys with the greenie at his side. They’ve got their backs to a gigantic bonfire, which is blazing so furiously that even over a dozen feet away, it’s making Newt sweat. Of course, he’s a little bit drunk as well, still drinking, and he always gets really hot whenever he drinks. And then there’s the boy sitting beside him - so close they’re practically touching - who seems to be emanating body heat as if he were a furnace. Maybe Newt’s imagining it. Either way, he takes another swig.

He’s been rambling about the Maze, and how dangerous it is, ‘cause the kid won’t stop asking questions about it and that kind of worries Newt. As far back as Newt can remember, none of the other boys who have showed up here in the past two and a half years since Newt’s own arrival have ever displayed such blatant curiosity about the stone walls that keep them trapped here and what lies beyond them - they’re all afraid, just as they’ve been told they should be, and so they don’t ask questions because, you know, they want to _live_ and anyone with an ounce of common sense and intuition should be able to sense that the Maze and anything in it poses a distinct threat to you and your life as soon as you set foot inside.

But not this kid. Not this greenie. That’s been made all too clear, given the batshit-crazy stunt he’d try to pull earlier. For some reason, he’s different. And for whatever reason, that’s really got Newt on edge.

“Listen, the truth is,” he continues, “the Runners are the only ones that really know what’s out there. They’re the strongest and the fastest of us all, and it’s a good thing too, ‘cause if they don’t make it back before those doors close, then they’re stuck out there for the night.”

He had been staring off into the distance, into the darkness, but now he turns to face the greenie and look him in the eye. Newt really wants this next line to have _impact_. The kid had already been staring at him, so he meets Newt’s eyes right away as he turns, and his gaze is so intense that Newt finds himself pausing for seconds longer than he meant to before he goes on.

“And no one’s _ever_ survived a night in the Maze.”

And then Newt turns away again, automatically lifting his glass to his lips to have another gulp of alcohol. He’s suddenly jittery, a little uneasy, and he knows it’s because of the look the greenie was just giving him. Newt can’t put his finger on exactly what was off about it, but he can feel those eyes still on him, can see the boy’s face flickering in the firelight in his peripheral vision.  
  
“What happens to them?” the greenie asks, his voice low, quiet.

Newt takes a moment to collect his thoughts. He’s getting a little too drunk, probably. Too drunk, anyway, to be thinking about the horrific stuff that happens to anyone unfortunate enough to be out and about in the Maze past the doors closing.

“Well, we call them Grievers,” he says, as seriously as he can. He inexplicably feels like he really needs to get his point across - the point being that the greenie _has_ to listen to the rest of them when they tell him he _must_ stay put, safe and sound inside the Glade. That to wander off into the Maze would, essentially, be suicide. “Of course, no one’s ever seen one, and...lived to tell about it. But they’re out there!”

That seems to do the trick. The boy looks away, swallows hard. Newt waits for a retort, but nothing comes. And thank goodness for that - Newt’s not sure how much longer he’ll be able to form coherent sentences, especially ones about such drab stuff like the Maze and Grievers and people dying and whatnot.

“Right, well,” he announces, setting down his nearly empty glass and beginning to get to his feet - “that’s enough questions for one night, come on. Listen.” And he leans closer, smiles. “You’re supposed to be the guest of honor!”

The greenie starts mumbling protests, but doesn’t get far before Newt cuts him off. “No, no, no, come on, come on, let me show you around,” he insists. He manages to stand up straight, only wobbling a bit, and extend a hand to help the kid to his feet.

That’s when something really weird happens. Their eyes lock, the greenie slips his hand into Newt’s, and immediately Newt feels it - something warm settle deep in the pit of his gut, like a hot stone suddenly taking up a space that had been empty before. Newt coughs in surprise, but in the next second the greenie is on his feet and letting go of his hand, and the initial shock of the contact has passed but somehow, the warmth is still there. Newt stares down at his hands in bewilderment, and all he can think is _“holy shit, I’m drunker than I thought.”_

   
-

   
He forgets about the incident right away, brushes it off as a combination of the alcohol and the overwhelming heat of the bonfire getting to his head, and leads the greenie around their camp, blathering on about the specific groups they’ve organized and their skill sets and responsibilities. But it’s less than half an hour later, as he’s watching from the sidelines and wincing as the greenie gets tossed around in the sand, that he feels it again.

Their jaws all drop collectively when the kid manages to squeeze out of Gally’s grip and duck out from under him, causing Gally to faceplant right into the soft sand they’re tussling on. No greenie, ever, has managed to kick Gally out of the circle on their first night in the Glade, and Newt can only imagine the raging embarrassment Gally must be feeling. Newt, strangely, feels something like pride.

“Not so bad for a greenie, huh?” the kid bites out, and Newt has time to let out a short, delighted laugh before the greenie hits the ground, hard, his feet knocked clean out from under him with one swipe of Gally’s leg. The group lets out a collective _ooh_ , and they all hiss and squint in sympathy. Newt wonders if the kid has the balls to get back up and try again, and sure enough, he’s scrambling to his feet - but he doesn’t lunge at Gally.

Instead, he starts to yell.

“Thomas!” the greenie shouts, to no one in particular. He spins around, unsteady on his feet, and the crowd looks on, silent and waiting for more. “I remember my name, it’s - I’m _Thomas!”_

Thomas. Newt feels his stomach clench, and in the next moment, he feels too dizzy to stand. He leans over, gasping, wondering if he’s about to puke in front of everyone. _Thomas._

Somehow, somewhere, he’s heard that name before.

“Thomas!” Alby screams, and the rest of the crowd joins in, whooping and hollering in excitement. They surround the greenie, clapping him on the back, calling out his name, again and again - “Thomas! Thomas! Thomas!” Someone passes the kid a fresh glass of alcohol. “Welcome home, Thomas,” Newt hears Alby say. Newt’s the only one left on the sidelines, still fighting nausea, but no one notices that he’s missing from the crowd. Newt stares at the greenie - at Thomas - and wonders who he is. Who he was.

 _Thomas_.

  
-

  
Later, he’s sitting besides Alby, both of them staring ahead at the glowing embers of the dying fire. It’s just the two of them - the others had left to head to bed over half an hour ago. Newt is waiting, now, patiently and quietly, because he knows Alby well, and he knows that Alby has something he wants to talk about.

“This greenie,” Alby says finally, after several more minutes have passed. “He’s...different than the others.”

Newt can’t help but laugh a bit at that. “Yeah, that’s an understatement,” he replies. He lifts a hand to scrub his fingers through his hair and then, with his elbow on one knee, rests his chin in his palm thoughtfully. “What happened earlier….I’ve - _we’ve_ never seen anything like that.”

He’s referencing the greenie’s half-attempted escape, of course, and his explosion that had followed afterward. He remembers very clearly the boy’s expression of panic as he’d shouted at them all, asking questions, too many questions, that none of them were willing to answer just yet. “Why is he so interested in the Maze, Alby?" he continues, voice soft. "No one’s ever acted this way before.”

Alby shakes his head, looking just as bewildered as Newt feels. “I dunno, Newt. He was chompin’ at the fuckin’ bit to get into the thing before the doors closed...I know we hadn’t told him everything about this place yet, but we’ve never had to tell a greenie that the Maze is dangerous before. They just _know_.”

It’s Alby’s turn now to laugh; it’s a quiet, worried laugh. “Is he that stupid? Is he crazy? Or...does he fuckin’ know something we don’t?”

Newt doesn’t respond. He feels suddenly very uneasy, and though he’d managed before to dismiss the weird stuff that’d happened with the greenie - with Thomas - earlier in the night, those thoughts have definitely resurfaced.

After a few moments of apprehensive silence, Alby takes a deep breath and continues. “He’s...not scared. Or maybe he is, but he’s not scared _enough_.”

He turns to Newt, then. “I have a really bad feeling, Newt.”

“What....Alby, what do you mean?” Newt’s voice is hoarse. All at once, he’s frightened to hear whatever Alby’s planning on saying next - he has the sudden urge to tell him to shut his mouth and not say another word because if he does, and only if he does, then whatever it is that he’s afraid of will become a reality, and then it will be too late.

But he doesn’t, can’t bring himself to speak. “Something bad is gonna happen, Newt.” Alby says quietly. “Something big.”

And then, abruptly, he looks away and shrugs, almost carelessly, as if to say, _well, what can ya do?_ “I gotta get to sleep,” he says, and now Alby’s voice sounds distant, drained. He gets to his feet in one swift movement, stretches, yawns.

“G’night, Newt,” he mutters, and then he’s walking away before Newt can reply, fading almost immediately into the thick darkness of the Glade, leaving Newt alone and a little afraid and wondering - as he will for the next several hours until he finally manages to fall asleep - what in the fuck Alby could mean by _something bad._

 

- 

  
As soon as he sees Thomas crash to the ground, still shrieking as someone - Newt can’t see who - crawls on top of him and wraps their hands around his throat, Newt doesn’t even think about it, not for a moment. One second he’s hearing the screams coming from the direction of the forest and standing up, his gut twisting with fear as they grow louder and closer. In the next, he’s standing over Thomas and swinging his shovel through the air, aiming directly for the side of Ben’s head.  
  
The end of the shovel connects with a satisfying _thunk_ that sends aftershocks up Newt’s arms, and immediately he tosses it to the side and crouches over Ben’s trembling figure, his heart in his throat. “Ben! Wh-what are you doing?” he gasps breathlessly, reaching out to pin the boy’s arm to the ground as he begins to struggle to get up, growling like a rabid dog. Blood is already streaming down the side of the boy’s face, bright and glittery in the glaring sunlight. Gally and Frypan both lunge forward to help Newt as Ben continues writhing in the dirt.

“Calm down, Ben,” Gally orders. Newt can hear the fear in his voice. Frypan screams - “What _happened?”_

“He just attacked me!” Newt hears the greenie yell, voice shaking, but no one else appears to be listening. He looks up at Thomas, just for a moment, long enough to make sure he’s okay - and when Newt sees that he appears to be fine, he feels an oddly intense sense of relief before he turns his attention back to the sick and injured boy on the ground in front of him.

Alby forces his way through the crowd, peering down at Ben with a grim look in his eyes, and as soon as Ben sees him, he starts to whimper. “No, no, no, please,” he begins to beg, but the rest is drowned out by Alby’s voice. “All right, lift his shirt,” he orders, and, already knowing and dreading what they’ll find, Newt obeys.

Sure enough, there’s a sting on Ben’s sternum. The wound is raw and red, crusted with blood, and already there are tendrils of black snaking their way across Ben’s skin, practically reaching his armpit. Newt feels the ripple of shock and disgust and terror spread through the crowd like a wildfire. Newt himself feels like he can hardly breathe.

“He’s been stung,” Gally says, his tone incredulous. “In...in the middle of the day?”

The rest of the group is clearly shocked into silence. No one says a word. For a few terrible moments, the only noise is that of Ben’s harsh breathing and feeble moans.

“Put him in the Pit,” Alby says finally, and immediately Ben starts to wail.

 _“NO!”_ he shrieks. _"NO! PLEASE DON’T DO IT! PLEASE -”_

“Medjacks!” Newt shouts, his heart pounding, and he gratefully steps away as they rush to take his place and start hauling Ben in the direction of the Pit. Newt’s fingers are shaking, and he curls them into fists, digging his nails into his palm and biting his lip, willing himself to calm down, to breathe, to focus.

Newt watches them drag Ben away to the Pit. The boy kicks and snarls and screeches all the way there. 

  
-

  
Only an hour later, after the banishing, Thomas stands, very still, a dozen or so feet back from the closed doors. Newt walks by without looking at him. He can’t and won’t bring himself to meet the boy’s gaze. He has no interest in seeing the look of revulsion he knows he’ll find there. But out of his peripheral vision, as he passes, Newt catches the glimmer of tears in Thomas’ eyes, and the wave of self-loathing that crashes over him an instant later is nearly unbearable. Newt suddenly feels his own throat closing up, his own eyes pricking with hot tears. He has the urge to scream, and to run, but there’s nowhere to go.

If there’s a part of him that wants to turn back and press himself against Thomas and share the same breath as him until they both forget any of this ever happened, he doesn’t acknowledge it. Not at all.

   
-

  
The next morning, Newt is trying incredibly hard - as Thomas sits on a fallen tree next to Chuck and peppers him with question after question - to keep his aggravation in check. The day’s barely begun and he already feels exhausted; he slept poorly last night, plagued by nightmares he couldn’t remember at all by the time he woke, gasping and sweaty. Sucks for him, because here’s a lot of work to be done today - several ugly, gnarled tree stumps have to be chopped into firewood and then the remains dug entirely out of the ground so that their vegetable fields can be expanded - and on top of it all, now Thomas is running his goddamn mouth again, like he’s been doing pretty much nonstop since they yanked his ass up out of the Box. All Newt wants is some peace and goddamn _quiet._

“Why would Alby go in the Maze?” Thomas is babbling. “I mean, he’s not - he’s not a Runner.”

“Things are different now,” Newt says tiredly, giving the tree stump in front of him another good whack. “Alby went to re-trace Ben’s footsteps before sundown - look, are you gonna _help?”_

His question is, of course, ignored. Thomas makes a noise of disbelief. “Okay, so he’s gonna go back to where Ben was just stung -”

“Alby knows what he’s doing!” Newt interrupts, gritting his teeth. “All right? He knows better than any of us.”

“What does that _mean?”_

Newt closes his eyes, breathes in deeply through his nose, lifts a hand to rub the back of his sunburnt neck. Why he’s bothering to respond at this point, he doesn’t know. There’s obviously a part of him that finds the prospect of leaving the poor kid in the dark unbearable.

“It’s like you’ve heard, yeah?” he says eventually, raising his head to look Thomas dead in the eye. “Every month, the Box sends up a new arrival. But someone had to be first, right? Someone had to have spent a whole month in the Glade _alone_. And that was Alby.”

Thomas stares back at him, his expression both fascinated and a little horrified. Newt turns back to his tree stump, hacking away at it while continuing.

“I mean, it can’t have been easy. But when those other boys started coming up, one after the other, he saw the _truth_. And he learned that the most important thing -” here he glances up, locking eyes with Thomas yet again - “is that we all have each other. Because we’re all in this _together_.”

And he looks away, again. There’s an awful lump in the back of his throat all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know why. He swallows hard, redirects all of his attention to the stupid tree stump in front of him. _No more,_ he silently begs. _No more questions._

He’s thrilled when Thomas not only remains silent, but climbs abruptly to his feet and approaches the stump with something like determination, sword grasped in his hand. Newt steps back with a hint of a smile, lets Thomas take his place. “Yeah!” he exclaims, as the boy takes his first couple of whacks at the damn thing. “There ya go, greenie!” And when the kid glances up to smile at him, a little sheepishly, Newt smiles right back, and watches as Thomas turns to attack the stump again, this time with a little more enthusiasm.

Newt starts to move in to get back to work, but his gaze lingers a bit on the other boy’s blue shirt, which is damp with sweat and clinging to his back and shoulders. Newt can clearly see the muscles there working, moving and contracting as Thomas brings the blade down and then wrenches it out of the thick wood of the tree stump, again and again.

Quite suddenly, the lump in his throat is back again.

He looks away.

-

  
Newt had watched the black clouds roll in and darken the sky with an enormous amount of trepidation. It rarely rains in the Glade, and for it to storm today means nothing good. Every runner has a watch that helps them keep track of the time, but many of them rely on the sky more than anything else, and this kind of weather can throw off even the best runner’s sense of time immensely.

It’s raining now, hard, and everyone has gathered under the bits and pieces of shelter they have, huddled together, mostly silent, and all of them with their eyes on the open doors to the Maze. The air is humid, thick with moisture and with an unspoken sense of dread. Everyone knows that the later it gets, the less likely Alby and Minho are to return. They should have been back at least an hour ago, if not more. And if something’s gone wrong enough to have held them up for this long…….

Thomas is with Newt under the roof of one of their smaller makeshift shelters, standing a few feet away and absolutely radiating anxiety. He’s a lot more nervous than anyone else, as far as Newt can tell, and certainly more on edge than even Newt himself, who’s known both Alby and Minho longer and better than just about anyone else in the Glade.

But maybe that’s why he’s not as afraid for them. He knows how strong and smart the two of them are.

“What happens if they don’t make it?” Thomas asks suddenly. He’s furiously tapping his fingers against the trunk of the tree in front of him, and Newt has the sudden urge to go to him, cover the boy’s fingers with his own, bring them to his lips. Show him that it’s gonna be okay.

But he doesn’t. He feels an abrupt wave of nausea - why the fuck would he even think of doing something like that? And he definitely doesn’t know if it’s going to be okay. Still, he replies, with as much confidence as he can muster - “They’re gonna make it.”

In an instant, Thomas is beside him, a fervent look in his eyes, and Newt feels a twinge of fear for no reason that he can immediately discern. He’s reminded, a little distantly, of Alby’s words the night before.

 _Something bad is gonna happen. Something big_.

He stares back at Thomas for a moment, goosebumps suddenly spreading across every exposed inch of his skin. “They’re gonna make it,” he repeats, and when Thomas turns and walks away from him without replying, Newt has to bite his lip to keep himself from asking him to _stop. Wait._

  
_Come back._

   
-

  
Newt feels something like pure terror as he watches Thomas slip through the closing stone doors and hurl himself into the Maze. He’d thrown out an arm, when he’d first realized that Thomas was moving forward, to try and stop him. His fingers had opened and closed, desperate to grab a hold of something, anything that might prevent Thomas from making it any further - his arm, his shoulder, a handful of his shirt. But before Newt could fully comprehend what was happening, the doors ground to a halt and shut completely, and Newt felt his arm fall to his side, his hand empty.

Thomas was gone.

Afterwards, the group of them stand in complete silence, mouths open in absolute shock. Never, _never_ before had a Glader done something so utterly insane. It was beyond incomprehensible. Moments pass, and not a single one of them moves or speaks - until Chuck says, quietly, “They’ll make it.”

Newt hears a few of the boys snort. One of them even laughs. Probably not because he thinks anything is funny, but simply because the mere suggestion that any of them - Alby, Minho, Thomas - will come casually strolling out of the Maze in the morning is almost offensively ridiculous.

If they’re lucky, they’ll survive for a few more hours.

The other boys are walking away, now. Darkness is falling, and they’ll likely all head directly to bed. The horror of losing two of their strongest and most respected boys, as well as their newest addition, all in one night, is more than most of them can handle. No meeting will be held tonight. They will save that, as well as any public display of grieving, for tomorrow.

Minutes later, Newt is still staring at the stone doors. The jolt of terror he’d felt earlier has left him lightheaded and exhausted, but he can’t bring himself to walk away just yet. What was going _on_ with him? He’d be horrified to see any Glader essentially throw themselves to their death, but what he’d felt watching Thomas slip away...he can’t explain it. It was unwarranted. It was uncalled for.

He barely knew the kid.

“They’ll make it,” Chuck repeats, and Newt jumps, finally turns. He hadn’t realized that Chuck was still standing with him, and as Newt lifts his head to look around, he sees that, in fact, Chuck is the _only_ one still standing with him. And he’s looking up at Newt now, looking for reassurance, eyes wide and full of hope. _He’s so young. The youngest of all of us_ , Newt thinks, and for a second, for some wild reason, he fears he might begin to cry.

But he doesn’t. And he can’t give Chuck the reassurance he’s looking for, either. It doesn’t matter if it will break his heart, because it’s reality, and pretending for any longer that Alby, Minho and Thomas aren’t already dead is only going to make it all the more painful in the morning when the doors open to reveal an empty, desolate Maze.

“No,” Newt says hollowly, and he doesn’t look at Chuck. He won’t. “No, Chuck. They’re not going to make it.”

With that, he walks away.

 

-

  
He sleeps fitfully and wakes often, gasping for air, able to remember only fragments of his nightmares. A hideous, mechanical monster chasing him down a narrow hallway made of stone. Arms outstretched, trying to grab hold of him but always just out of reach. Himself, drowning, water filling his mouth as he opens it to scream. And a name, always, in the back of his throat -

  
Thomas.

  
-

   
In the morning, despite himself, Newt is waiting at the doors with Chuck by his side. To be fair, they’re _all_ there. Watching and waiting. Most of them are sprawled in the grass a short distance away, sitting in small groups, saying little, mostly staring off into the distance. But Newt - and Chuck - are right at the forefront. They both look straight ahead. Neither of them speak. Any moment now, the doors will open, and they’ll know. And Newt is praying that Chuck will be able to turn to him, pointing, laugh right in his face and scream - _“Told you so!”_

When the doors finally begin to pull apart, Chuck excitedly calls the rest of the Gladers over - “Guys! Get up!”

Newt’s heart pounds so hard he can feel pressure in his ears. _Quit it,_ he scolds himself frantically. _How'd you allow yourself to get your hopes up like this? You know they’re dead._

_Go ahead. Look. You’ll see._

They’re not there. Of course they’re not. The Maze is empty. Newt almost lets out a crazed bark of laughter. How, _how_ could he have let himself expect anything else, even if only for a moment?

A second later, he’s gone numb. _Dead_ , he thinks. _Alby. Minho_. Both dead.

And Thomas.

“I told you, Chuck,” he hears himself say. “They’re not coming back.”

He turns. Begins to walk away. The others trail after him, of course. With a jolt of panic, Newt realizes that they’ll all be looking to him now. Alby’s dead - that means Newt is in charge. Newt has to decide what to do next, where they go from here.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready for that - if he’ll ever be ready. For a second, he feels truly afraid.

But then - _“Yeahhhhhhhhhhh!”_

A fierce, jubilant scream.

It’s Chuck. Newt turns so quickly he almost falls. And there they are - he’s counting automatically, almost before he can process what he’s really seeing. One. Two. Three. Two boys, holding up a third between them - that one’s Alby - he’s been hurt.  
  
But they’re alive. _They made it._

The next few moments are a blur. Newt rushes forward, grabbing hold of Alby as Thomas struggles to lower him gently to the ground. The others swarm around them, astonished, babbling in amazement, as Newt examines Alby quickly - he’s been stung, but he’s definitely alive, and Minho seems fine, almost _too_ good, radiating energy as if he’s been pumped full of pure adrenaline. And Thomas. Newt glances over at him, crouched on the ground, one hand in the gravel beneath them to hold himself steady. Newt sees that he’s okay, he’s really okay, he really made it back safe - and the sense of relief that washes over him is dizzying. He practically keels over.

“You saw a Griever?” Chuck asks Thomas breathlessly, and everyone turns to look at the greenie, eagerly awaiting his response.

“Yeah, I saw one,” Thomas says. No one says anything back, and Newt knows it’s because they’re in disbelief. Like Newt had said the night of the bonfire, no one had ever seen a Griever before and lived to tell the tale. But now someone had. A _greenie_ had. It was, in a word...unbelievable.

“He didn’t just see it,” Minho says suddenly, his voice loud. “He _killed_ it.”

 

...

 

In the chaos that follows Minho’s words, Newt finds himself unable to move, unable to speak. The boys surrounding him are yelling, screaming, singing, dancing, celebrating. It’s more than any of them can handle.

The greenie, launching himself into the Maze? Fine - he’s nuts.  
  
The greenie, not only surviving the night, but surviving an encounter with a Griever? Okay - that’s pretty cool.  
  
The greenie, not only surviving an encounter with a Griever, but managing to _kill it_ in the process?

It’s simply too much.

Newt is still crouched by Alby’s unmoving body. Everything around him seems to be moving in slow motion. He watches as Thomas slowly gets to his feet, clearly at a total loss as to how to respond to the Gladers who are hollering his name. He looks around, and then down at his hands for several moments, before he turns to the side and sees Newt, silent, staring at him with wide eyes. And Thomas grins down at him.

It’s then, in one swift moment of terrifying clarity, that Newt suddenly knows - beyond any doubt - that he will do anything for the sweat-drenched, bloodstained boy standing before him.

It’s then he knows that his life will never be the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I have loads more where this came from, so let me know if u like it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
